A Sailor's Valentine
by cowbellgalore
Summary: England/France: France finds an old valentine England once gave him in the lead up to Valentine's Day. He's picking up the phone and doing stupid emotion driven things before he can stop himself.


**obligatory tooth rotting fluff Valentine's Day fic with useless information!**

It had been a chance find.

It probably would have remained lost, unloved, hidden beneath the multitudes of old uniforms and dust if France hadn't promised Prussia he'd find his old diary so the other could scrutinise the words and see if his 'awesomeness' was properly documented.

As he holds it in both his hands, he weighs it, familiarising himself once again with the feel of it.

It's large, octagonal. It's made from Spanish cedar, a heart clasp locks the two plain pieces together but he doesn't dare open it yet. He brushes a thumb over the wood protecting the shell he knows is inside, clearing away the layer of dust.

He'd forgotten about it, forgotten it ever existed. But he can remember now, each brush of his fingers removing the obstructing dust and making the memories stronger and more vivid.

It was the nineteenth century (he couldn't pinpoint the year, he could feel his age at times like these) and England had turned up at his residence on February 14 in his nice privateer clothes, all red faced and averted eyes and hands behind back and looking entirely too suspicious to not be hiding something.

Naturally they had greeted each other with the customary insult and pseudo-violence, but they had ended up opposite each other in the sitting room with a pot of hot tea between them.

England hadn't said anything. Just brought the wood octagon from behind his body and held it out.

France had accepted it wordlessly too, opening it quickly and trying to keep the smile from splitting his face as he observed the various red, white and blues of the shells within.

He had examined it with contempt, a contrast to how gently he held it, remarking on how trivial it was while his heart beat in his tightened chest and the heat pricked his neck and as he tried to resist the upward pull to his lips.

England too agreed with how stupid it was, even as France watched him wring his hands nervously in his lap and crinkle his coat.

And they had spent the rest of that February 14 agreeing over how trivial and stupid and completely unnecessary it was while England told the tales of his travels.

They bantered each time France commented on how exaggerated England's stories were, how farfetched the thought of England wrestling a giant squid was and _be quiet, there's nothing wrong with emphasising my good qualities_.

Even when that pot of tea was completely cold and the sun had set, they still agreed that it wasn't needed while they lay together in bed, sated and a little anxious.

France smiles to himself, sliding down to his knees and looking, just looking at the still unopened valentine England had got him so many years ago.

He can remember that the next day, once they had both dressed appropriately, England had said that 'it didn't mean anything' and he 'didn't know why he did it' and the both of them were left bewildered at the thought they had spent the previous day completely agreeing with each other.

When he had finally left, England had consciously pecked France on the cheek with an elbow to the gut and a reminder to put the blasted valentine somewhere where they'd never see it again. France had agreed with that too.

They haven't agreed with each other so much since then, since England swallowed his pride and France too swallowed his and _isn't Saint Valentine's Day soon?_

Standing, France clutches the valentine to his chest as he leaves behind the dust and grime and walks to his telephone, set on calling one nation in particular. His hand is picking up the phone before he even realises what he's doing.

England picks up after twelve rings, less than the last time he had called, giving France enough time to hang up and forget about it, but despite his greatest efforts his hand just won't let go. "What is it?" England says in a disgruntled voice and France knows that the other has finally got his caller ID working again.

He fingers the wood thoughtfully and still wonders why he's doing this. "Do you remember a February 14 some time in the nineteenth century?"

Silence on the other end of the phone, a cough, until "What of it?"

"Barbados must have worked so hard on it. She complained to me about it when I visited. You couldn't have just settled for a local, could you?"

France smiles and _swears_ he can hear the blood rushing to England's ears, turning them red. It takes a moment for England to clear his throat, most likely so he doesn't embarrass himself. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm hanging up so-"

"I do not know what I am talking about either, England." France sighs with exaggeration and drama, bites his lip to keep from laughing. "There I was, helping out an old friend by searching through my old things when I come upon this endearing little _octogone_. At first I didn't remember where it came from but-"

"Frog."

"-I remembered! You, in your nice little privateer clothes and your untrimmed brows and-"

"They _were_ trimmed."

"-A sailor's valentine! From you, of all people!"

France stops and lets himself grin, because England can't see him and even if England was standing in front of him, he probably wouldn't be able to keep it in. Something's tightening in his chest and he's not sure if it's pleasant or not, but it is awfully warm.

England huffs on the other side of the line. There's not much he can do now, now that he can't deny it, and hanging up would be like admitting defeat. He tries to change the topic. "Why are you calling me?"

"No reason," France replies easily, despite his voice lacking its normally cocky edge and fears something might slip, "I was wondering if you were busy on Monday?"

They're both quiet for a moment. England knows that France is grinning like the fool he is and France knows that England is blushing and gritting his teeth like the romantic fool _he_ is.

France isn't quite sure why he's doing this.

Perhaps he's getting sentimental.

Perhaps he just wants to see England get all red faced so he can taunt him.

Perhaps he just wants to feel what he did all those years ago when England surprised him out of the blue and made his heart beat faster.

His heart beats faster when he's in the throes of passion; his heart beats faster when he's in the horrors of war-

-but his heart had choked him that one February 14 years ago.

Whatever the reason was, France was now set on spending Valentine's Day with England, consenting or not.

In fact, why should it be restricted to Valentine's Day? France wants to be able to shove delicious food in England's face and squeeze him until it hurts on the couch and spend their days arguing and being near each other.

But England's a sucker for romance, so France is happy with this for the moment.

Apparently England had caught wind of this idea. "…America's Valentine's part-"

"Oh, that is on Tuesday, and I was hoping to go with you anyway, _rosbif_."

England's caught off guard, France can tell, because he reverts back to his usual tactics. "You just want to touch my arse… and everyone else's for that matter."

Now that he mentions it… "Perhaps, but heavens knows it would be far too embarrassing to turn up without an escort." Both statements are partly true, maybe, sort of.

England _pretends_ to groan on the other side and doesn't notice the curiosity and maybe a little of anticipation in his voice. "Damn it frog, you know I hate all this-"

"Do not lie to me England, we both know what a hopeless romantic you are. Would it tempt you any more if I propose that we take your old bow and arrow and shoot at the others 'in the name of love'?"

England considers it for a moment. "…That does sound a little tempting-"

"I have steel tipped arrows?" And that was the nail in the coffin.

England sighs out a 'fine', but France can hear the contained enthusiasm in the small noise and snorts at the thought that England hasn't changed. Probably can't ever truly change.

He hasn't changed either. He's fine with that.

He looks down to the valentine in his hand, idly stoking it with a finger. "Do you still think it is stupid?"

A pause.

"...Do you still think it's trivial?"

France shakes his head because England can't see the action or the stupid tug of his lips. "So Monday… Perhaps 'The Frog and Princess'?"

It's not the most romantic place, an English pub in France of all things. England has the same thoughts. "A pub? Are you trying to tell me something?"

He chuckles and brushes the valentine again. "Well would you prefer '_Ladurée Bonaparte_'? I do recall you telling Portugal that you do so enjoy their macarons." France doesn't know why he remembers this or even listened to the conversation in the first place.

England's surprisingly okay with the plan and after firmly stating that it 'isn't a date' and 'put that stupid thing away' as an afterthought he hangs up with a stiff and lingering 'bye'.

France thinks it's cute and a little disappointing that after years of this… _something_ between them (not quite together, not quite apart but not denying it either), that England is still so closed with his feelings. He realises that he's probably the same too, but he has his pride-

-And an old valentine in his hand.

Fondly he opens it once he's sitting on the floor and the phone is back on the receiver, carefully prying the edges away like they're made of paper. He stares at the inside of the valentine, having forgotten the intricate patterns the shells formed. They form a swirl on the right panel, coming to a red and white compass rose in the middle framed by the blue shells, protected by a glass pane. England must have forked over something and a half to get Barbados to do something so detailed.

Another swirl of shells that form a large circle-

-And the word 'frog' with a red rounded heart underneath on the left inside that.

It's stupid and trivial; really it is; tacky even. It's just octagonal shell and wood and glass with a little sentimental attachment. France has an attachment to the croissant shaped bush out the front, so what's the big deal?

France isn't sure. He stands after closing it, walks away, back into his dusty room to put away the stupid thing and pauses in the doorway.

The valentine weighs distractedly in his hands, made heavy by foolish _emotion_ than anything else. Once again he looks down at it, wondering if he had really just called England for no good reason, other than that he was feeling sentimental or that his mind really was lost.

He should dump it back in the box, under the old uniforms and dust where it _belongs_; where he can't see it and where England agrees it should stay.

Yet he doesn't. He walks right back out of that room, intent on placing the wretched thing on his mantle piece, open and for everyone to see so he can gloat the next time England comes over, which would be soon it seemed.

He tries his best to smooth out his lips, think of obscene things, imagine something naughty, _anything_ to stop his heart from choking him and refocus his mind on finding his diary.

But it seems Prussia's need to stroke his ego will just have to wait. The booking of a not-date and plans to taunt an Englishman with a silly sailor's valentine are much more important.

**Sailor's valentines were popular in the nineteenth century amongst British and American sailors, privateers etc, particularly around 1830 and 1880. Originally they were thought to have been made by the sailors themselves, but they were able to trace it back to a craft in Barbados where they would sell them to sailor's who wanted to bring back something to their sweetums, the whole 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' thing. Usually there'd be some kind of message or names of the valentines on the inside, thus why 'frog' is written inside France's. Originally I tried to put in an exact year that England gave it to France, but hey, let's leave it up to interpretation :) /short attention span**

**The Frog & Princess - one of those 'Frogpubs' in France, y'know, the chain with the 'Frog and Rosbif' pub**

**Ladurée Bonaparte - The most recent Ladurée - famous for their macarons. The Frog & Princess and Ladurée Bonaparte are both located in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, I believe**


End file.
